Resurrection
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Follow-up to 'The Waiting Game'. It's time for the next stage of the training for Section 31's newest operatives.
1. Chapter 1

**Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.**

**Warning: Later chapters of this story contains scenes of medical procedures that some readers may find unpleasant.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom I am, as always, deeply indebted.**

**Special additional thanks to Distracted, for help with the medical side of things, and to Shi Shi for background information. Also for all the encouragement ... thanks, Shi!**

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><p>"Damnation!"<p>

The musical note of the desk-phone's ringtone halted Marcellus Grenham on his way to the door.

For a long moment he hesitated. He'd done a long day's research, even skipping lunch to pursue a particularly interesting avenue of experimentation, and he was looking forward to dinner with his wife and a long evening's relaxation.

The sunshine beckoned. They had a favorite bar looking out across the Bay. Joelle would drink strawberry daiquiri over rocks and tell him about her day at the Uni, and he'd hold her hand and think about how lovely she was, and how he was the luckiest guy in the world to have married a girl who was as gorgeous as she was kind as she was clever.

Ten to one the phone call was just someone ringing to tell him the scanner had jammed again in Lab Eight. Hell, whoever it was could just leave him a message. He was done for the day. Late again, in fact, and even though J would look pointedly at her watch and tap one foot on the floor when he ran in, that would be _before _she smiled and told him to make sure this never happened again, _at least till tomorrow – _still, he didn't want to make a habit of it.

He put his hand on the door-handle. Then, with a muttered curse, he strode back to the desk and lifted the receiver just before the answering machine cut in. Most likely whoever it was would have taken the hint anyway, and all he'd hear would be the buzz of the dialing tone. "Lab Seven. Grenham."

"Marcellus. I thought you'd have been gone home by now. New wife, and all that."

He gritted his teeth. Such a remark would have been inoffensive coming from almost any other of his colleagues, but from Sanderson it was imbued with … something. Something that made him want to snap 'S_he's none of your goddamn business'_; something that had been there ever since Joelle had come to a reception for some VIP visitors and Sanderson's eyes had slid down her svelte body in that beautiful, stylish blue dress she'd been wearing.

He'd hated that dress ever since.

But Sanderson had power, and both of them knew it. Sanderson could shut down the lab, and there were few sources willing to fund research in such an esoteric field, where successes were few and rarely acclaimed.

"I'm about to leave now, sir." He kept his voice conciliatory, but not subservient.

"You may want to delay your departure for a while." The other man spoke coolly, all business now. "You have a call from Starfleet."

_"Starfleet?" _

His initial response was that it must be a mistake. The bigwigs at Starfleet had begun to show interest in Joelle's research, but as a physicist she was working in a field which could easily have ramifications for their development programs. Why anyone there should want to speak to a humble doctor working in a research lab was beyond him.

"You're sure it's me they want?" he asked doubtfully, before he could think better of it.

The reply had bite. "You may not have noticed, Grenham, but there aren't many people with your name working here. The caller was specific. Now take the call and deal with it. Some of us _do _have homes to go to." There was a click as the call was transferred, and Marcellus found himself listening to a disconcerting silence.

"Hello?" he said cautiously.

"Doctor Marcellus Grenham?"

The person on the other end of the line was male, American, and probably in early middle-age at a guess. It wasn't a voice he'd heard before, that he could remember. Nevertheless he received the immediate impression that the speaker knew _him _very well indeed.

"Speaking."

"Good evening, Doctor. I apologize for delaying your departure from your laboratory. However, there is something we need to discuss – and at your earliest convenience."

"Something to do with my work?"

"In a way, it may come to that." The voice sharpened. "When you leave, take the third flitter in the rank. It will have its destination pre-programmed. I strongly suggest that you don't make any attempt to find out where you're going; you might find the experience unpleasant. I'll speak to you again when you arrive."

"But – Wait, who _are_–?"

There was a click, followed by the buzz of the dialing tone.

He checked the call records on the computer. There was no evidence that anyone had been on the phone at all.

There was no point in ringing Sanderson. If the director was on his way home he wouldn't answer his cellphone, and they'd never been on such terms as to exchange home contact numbers, even if the other man would be willing to talk when he got in.

Slowly Marcellus replaced the receiver.

After a moment he called his wife via the vid-phone.

"I'm going to be … a bit later than usual tonight, honey," he said, praying that her clear intelligent gaze wouldn't see at once his confusion and anxiety. "Just one of those meetings, you know? Galloway wants to go through the figures again. I said it would do tomorrow but you know what he's like."

"He's an ass," she replied humorously. "Okay, sweetheart. But you pay for the drinks tonight, right?" That was one of their little jokes, of course; they shared their money the way they shared everything.

"Of course. And I'll even treat you to one of those little paper umbrellas if you play your cards right."

"Wow. Can't wait." There was a message in her gaze that in other circumstances would have sent him flying to the car-park, thoughts of dinner forgotten, but tonight he couldn't let himself notice.

He hated himself for lying to her.

He closed off the vid-link, with the excuse that he was already late for the 'meeting'. Then, slowly, he made his way to the flitter rank, reserved for the company's employees who didn't have their own vehicles. He'd never used one before, but he knew how they worked and he had an account chip.

The third flitter was indistinguishable from all the others. He got into it a little nervously and buckled himself into the seat.

As soon as the chip clicked into place the flitter lifted and began to move. It slipped smoothly out of the car park and onto the freeway, where after a couple of moments the windows automatically darkened. Most vehicles' glass did so to minimize glare, but this one blacked out completely. Even the windscreen went black.

It was an intensely unnerving experience – flying blind in a flitter he couldn't control. He laid his arms on the rests, trying to resist the urge to grip them in panic.

What the heck had he gotten himself into?

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

The flitter traveled for something over half an hour, as best he could guess. There was no clock display on the dashboard, nor any other information. His ears told him that course changes took place, but in the dark he lost track of time, and the turns soon defeated his initial attempt to keep some idea of which direction he might be heading in. At one point he thought the flitter described at least one full circle, and after that he was hopelessly lost.

Presently, however, there was a sense of deceleration. The little craft came to a halt, and set down lightly. After a moment or two, the glass cleared and he was able to see out.

The flitter was in a large room – something that looked like an old garage. It was shabby and dusty, and pieces of equipment that looked like some kind of farm implement hung on one wall. The only light came from a window high on the opposite wall. There was broken glass in it, also dusty.

There was one man other than himself in the room. He was standing perhaps a meter away from the flitter. He was wearing a nondescript trench coat of black leather, and his appearance matched the voice, though he was smaller than Marcellus would somehow have expected. His build was stocky. Under a thick thatch of graying hair, his square face was prematurely lined.

His expression was about as readable as a block of concrete. No pleasure, no relief – nothing.

After a momentary hesitation, the doctor keyed the exit control. The flitter door opened with the usual faint purr of servomotors.

The stranger didn't move. Nor did he speak.

Marcellus got out of the flitter. He was more than a little apprehensive. During the journey he'd had ample time to ask himself what the hell he'd thought he was doing getting into a flitter to be taken God-knew-where to meet someone whom he didn't know for some completely unexplained reason that 'might' have something to do with his work. So far, he hadn't come up with a plausible answer.

He was a writer, not a fighter. All of his life he'd been devoted to healing. If this was some kind of trap….

"Good of you to come, Doctor Grenham." The voice was gravelly, almost without inflection. "You may recognize the person in this photograph." He pulled a PADD from one of the capacious pockets of the leather coat and thrust it out.

Without answering, Marcellus took it.

His heart sank as he did, indeed, recognize the subject.

Joelle had an older sister, Jodie, whose brief and tempestuous marriage had produced a single child, Faye. Given both her parents' volatile natures, it was hardly surprising that Faye had inherited them, and was now in the process of proving that although she was intelligent enough to get into officer training at Starfleet Academy she had only a tenuous grasp of the realities of keeping her place there.

"What about her?" he asked, his throat dry. There was really no point in denials. If this ominous stranger knew enough to bring him here, he might as well acknowledge the realities of the situation immediately.

"Gambling, Doctor, is one of the pursuits that Starfleet Academy does not approve of in its pupils." He took back the PADD and brought up another screen. "Unfortunately, your wife's niece has chosen to ignore that small fact."

"She's been warned," said Marcellus hopelessly. The whole family was aware of the problem. After a string of failed relationships, Jodie now was teetering on the brink of alcohol addiction. The seemingly inevitable ignominious expulsion of her daughter from the coveted place at the Academy would probably tip her over into it.

Unfortunately, you didn't just marry one person. To some degree, you married their family problems as well.

"Regrettable that she evidently didn't take heed. I have to wonder if the family is aware of the size of the problem." The PADD was passed back again.

Marcellus gasped involuntarily. The total was staggering. How could even a foolish, heedless twenty-year-old have run up so much debt?

They weren't talking about expulsion from Starfleet now. They were talking about financial ruin.

"The figures are accurate and verifiable," the stranger went on coolly. "Run up in reputable institutions, with video footage of every second. There was no 'funny business' involved, so put that out of your mind. This is a genuine, legally binding debt, and your niece owes it. Have it investigated by all means. I assure you, the end result will be the same."

He put out a hand and rested it against the smooth side of the flitter. It was something solid in a world that was whirling and dipping around him.

"She'll be arrested," he said almost soundlessly. "We don't have that kind of money. She'll go to jail."

_What will this do to Jodie? _

_What will that do to Joelle?_

He dragged his head up from beneath what felt like a mountain of desolation that had fallen on it. "But you didn't bring me here to tell me that," he said, putting his finger on the only certainty remaining in his world. "At least, not _only _that. So tell me what you want." He was beginning to fear that he already knew, but he wanted the thing out in the open where it could be dissected and dealt with. Somehow. He wouldn't be here if there wasn't some kind of … deal … on the table.

A faint respect gleamed far back in the deep eyes. "You're quick."

"It was obvious."

"I meant quick at cutting to the chase. No bluster. I like that in a man."

"I don't give a toss what you like." The phantom courage of despair stiffened him. "Just tell me the bottom line. You're not from any banking institution, and if this was a question of action by Starfleet she'd already be out on her butt. So what do you want from me?"

The stranger studied him in silence for a while. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. It wasn't a particularly nice smile – it got nowhere near his eyes – but it acknowledged a worthy adversary.

"Okay. Bottom line. I'm here to offer you a post at a top Starfleet institution. Funded research, decent pay – better than what you're earning where you are. And by way of a sweetener, we'll arrange for your niece's problems to … disappear."

Marcellus squinted at him. The suspicion was growing on him that he'd wandered into a madhouse and was talking to the sole lunatic occupying it.

This was _not _how recruitment worked in the research world – and nor, indeed, in any other that he knew of. If you were talented, and lucky, you got head-hunted once in a while, but it had never occurred to him that he was a genius of that caliber. It wasn't occurring to him now, either.

"Don't take my word for anything," the other man continued, still with that faint, unnerving smile. "When we're done here, you're free to go. Take your time, I'll send you all the contact information you need. Verify whatever you want. Talk to young Faye. As for the job offer, the details will be in the mail tomorrow. If you decide you're interested, I'll be here a week from now. Just take the flitter like you did this evening."

"Wait." He put out a hand, though the stranger hadn't moved. "This isn't about any research job. I want you to tell me what you _really _want from me."

The smile faded. The eyes were cold, and deep, and dark.

"I assure you, Doctor, the job is genuine. It's a secure post, working with some good people. But you will be expected to perform … additional duties. And to keep your mouth shut about whatever you see and whatever you do. Because any mistaken attempt on your part to divulge any details whatsoever to inappropriate persons would have … consequences."

"'Consequences'?"

"_Unpleasant _consequences." He glanced significantly at the PADD. It was now displaying a family photo, one that Marcellus recognized with a lurch of the heart as having been taken at his in-laws' place the previous Thanksgiving. How it had gotten into this man's possession was a mystery.

There was always talk, of course. His wife enjoyed reading thrillers about such things: secret organizations, shadowy arms of the CIA and even the UEIA … but you never believed that even a tenth of them _really _existed. And even if they did, they'd never, ever, take a personal interest in _you._

"And what happens if I don't show up?" he asked, dry-mouthed with fear and helpless anger. _Joelle…_

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Except that at midnight a week from now, formal proceedings will be instituted against your niece for debt recovery. And everything after that is out of my hands."

"Blackmail." It was not a protest; protest was useless. It was simply a statement of fact.

The stranger nodded, showing no offense. "If you want to see it that way. On the other hand, you'll be helping your wife's family. Earning a better wage, carrying on with your work – employed by a global company. And the additional duties we'll expect of you are … humanitarian."

_Yeah, and I'm the President's great-grandmother._

"Take your time. Talk to your wife. Tell her you've had a career move offered to you – it's the truth, after all." The humorless smile reappeared briefly. "There's no need to mention the other little problem. If you accept, there won't _be_ any problem. If you don't, well – they'll all find out soon enough." He turned to leave, evidently feeling that everything had been said that needed to be, but paused momentarily. "Oh, one more thing. There's really no point in contacting the police: Starfleet will never have heard of me. Your Mister Sanderson will categorically deny ever having handed on the call to you this evening. I'd imagine you've already discovered that there's no record of the call on your phone system. And those consequences I mentioned would really be rather unpleasant."

Marcellus watched him walk away towards the door at the far end of the room. He felt nothing but a sense of total unreality; as if without warning he'd been dumped into the plot of some late-night B-movie, and somewhere out there a few dozen insomniacs were sitting idly watching him over a bowl of popcorn and a beer because the only alternatives were the news or repeats of old talk shows.

"At least tell me who you are," he said, as the door opened. Slanting evening sunlight fell across the dusty floor.

The man paused again and looked back. "You can call me Harris," he said. "It's not my name, of course, but you can call me by it. And if I were you, I'd get a move on. If you hit the late traffic on 23rd you won't get to that bar before sundown. And Joelle does like drinking her strawberry daiquiri looking out at the sunshine."

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

He took the job.

There was really no alternative. He'd lain awake agonizing over it every one of the seven ensuing nights, trying to think of some escape route that hadn't been tied up. He'd even made a surreptitious visit to the bank one lunchtime to find out what loans were available to him, something he'd never contemplated before – he and Joelle had always been united in their determination to save for what they wanted rather than borrow for it. As a result, their credit rating was excellent. The bank was willing, even anxious, to oblige. But even with everything they owned pledged as security, he still wouldn't be able to raise enough to pay off Faye's debts.

He told Joelle he'd been head-hunted, and did his best to act the part, though he'd never been a convincing actor in his life. He endured her delight and their families' congratulations and the ribbing of his soon-to-be-ex colleagues. He had leave owing; they went on a week's holiday to the Caribbean and lazed on the white beaches, and every moment he acted like he didn't have a care in the world.

He saw Faye for a few minutes at the party to celebrate his good fortune. They even snatched a moment in the kitchen while all the rest of the gang were out in the garden.

It was plain she knew _something_. For just a moment her façade dropped, and behind the bubbly young woman he'd always known there was a gray-faced kid with scared eyes.

Neither of them said anything. They just looked. But at a guess, she wouldn't be visiting any more casinos in the near future. That, at least, was some consolation.

If not much.

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><p>But for a while it seemed that the formless fears that haunted him from the moment he set foot inside Starfleet HQ were baseless. The job was everything that had been promised. His new colleagues were decent people, many of them friendly, all of them completely ordinary. The facilities were second to none; Starfleet could afford the best.<p>

He'd wondered what such an organization would want from research along his lines of interest: the workings of the human brain. But of course there were stresses of a particular kind associated with space flight and its many new situations. Naturally they'd want to find out as much as they could of the ways in which these traumas could be treated. He was at first faintly suspicious and then slowly reassured by the appreciation that was shown for his skill. These people knew what they were talking about, and they cared about their subject. It began – gradually – to feel as though he belonged.

Nobody mentioned anyone named Harris.

A couple of months passed. The winter closed in. Rain flurries were blowing on the wind one afternoon as he went to the coffee machine to get himself a drink. Outside, the waters of the Bay were gray and choppy. The Bridge was only vaguely visible in the cold mist that had drifted in off the ocean.

He stood beside the window looking out, giving his eyes a rest from the intensive study of the electron microscope. They made good coffee here too. It was one of the minor perks of the job.

His pager went off. Idly he took it from his pocket and glanced at the small screen.

_Take the elevator. Harris._

His throat closed up. With suddenly unsteady hands he put down the coffee on the windowsill. He hated people who just left things around for the cleaners to take care of, but right now he couldn't make himself do anything else.

"I've just been called away," he said to his supervisor, who was reading a report.

"Sure. See you tomorrow if you're not back by the time I leave."

"They didn't say." Amazing, really, that your voice can sound steady when your legs are shaking.

The legs might be shaking but they carried him anyway. He walked down the corridor to the elevator. Presumably, it was the nearest one.

He looked again at his pager. It hadn't specified which floor he should press the button to go to.

He got in. The door closed. The elevator started to move – downwards. Above the door the electronic display said _4,3,2,1,G,B … _and then went blank. But the sense of movement didn't stop.

Needless to say, it stopped eventually. It was doubtless just his imagination that suggested it went on for several hours.

Harris was waiting outside, of course. A corridor led away, clean to the point of sterility, illuminated by strip lighting and punctuated by windowless closed doors.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Grenham." To do the man justice, he didn't smile. "I believe you've become very well thought of upstairs."

"They seem satisfied with my work," was all Marcellus could manage. He was looking at the doors, and his imagination was playing jangling discords on ill-tuned harp strings at the thought of what might be behind them.

"It's time for you to begin the second phase of your work for us," Harris said as he turned away. "Two subjects were brought in this morning. They'll be your patients. We've had experience with dealing with this kind of thing, of course, but it needs a specialist to be in charge. One who has your kind of talent – and your kind of mindset."

"So if you've had experience, what do you need me for?" he demanded.

A chilly glance slanted along one shoulder – even in here, the man wore black. "The last specialist got careless."

_"What?" _His feet stopped moving. "Just what the heck kind of 'patients' am I going to be dealing with here?"

"The dangerous kind." Harris paused. "Also the _valuable _kind. We don't want them damaged any more than they already are. Unfortunately, in their current state they're no use to us. Your job is to get them back to as close to normal as possible – except in one or two particular characteristics."

"And those are?"

The dark gaze slid away. "I think it would be useful for you to get a look at them. You'll want to do your own assessments. And one of them is going to need surgery. I hope your talents with a scalpel haven't gotten rusty."

"If you're talking thoracic surgery I might need to read up some." His feeble attempt at a joke fell flat into silence.

The sound of their feet echoed in the corridors. There might have been no other soul in the place. It was utterly soundless. Whatever was behind those closed doors was hidden and hostile.

There was no way of knowing how Harris identified one door from another. Maybe he was counting as he went along. Suddenly he stopped and pressed his hand to the scanning panel beside one that looked exactly the same as all the others.

Marcellus's already fast-beating heart jumped into his throat. He didn't know what was in there. But he knew he wasn't going to like it when he saw it.

And he didn't.

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

Slowly the darkness drew back again.

He tried to hold on to it, but it went anyway.

He lay completely still, his eyes shut, and drew in long, soft, silent breaths, trying to analyse his surroundings. For they had changed. Even without seeing them, he knew that much. Doubtless more threats were to materialise, and he must be prepared to meet them with all the strength and cunning he could muster.

The smells told him one thing that comforted him. The female was still near to him. They slept as close to each other as they could for the bars, trying to keep some tenuous sense of familiarity in a world where everything was wrong. Now they were their own little pack; she was his Dorcha and he was her Alpha, responsible for her protection.

He heard voices. His top lip trembled, lifting off his teeth. His face was hidden in the curve of his foreleg, so the strange no-tails would not see the threat.

He kept his breathing slow and even. They would think he was still asleep.

He listened to the voices. The sounds resonated in his brain, hitting a wall. They meant nothing. He would not let them mean anything. They were _not-pack_.

Footsteps approached the cages. One of the voices went on speaking, its tone hardly changing. The other rose, the note of it carrying a clear message that he interpreted whether he would or no: the speaker was shocked and distressed.

An all-but soundless growl vibrated through his body. Prey sounded like that. The no-tail was afraid. He was wise to be afraid. Soon, if opportunity offered, he would be dead.

He heard another sound then, one that he had come to recognise all too well. It brought him wide awake in an instant, dropping all pretence; he was up on three legs, hurling himself against the bars of the cage, howling defiance.

The shot dropped him as it had done every time before. He fell, but the darkness did not come back. He could hear his Dorcha, awake now herself, throwing herself against the bars and screaming as he was dragged out by the no-tails, powerless to do anything but lie there as helpless as a newborn puppy as he was turned over for examination.

Maybe they understood the posture of submission. At any rate they did not hurt him when he was in it. Even his eyes were unable to shift, so that he stared upwards unblinking, trying to take in what information he could about the no-tails that surrounded him.

Most of them he had seen before. They came and went, using the device to keep him harmless when they cleaned the cages. Sometimes they stroked or prodded him, and the sound of their laughter filled him with impotent rage, so that when movement and control eventually returned to him he bit the bars till blood mingled with the saliva there.

One, however … instinct warred with the memories he denied, so that briefly he wanted to moan with fear and hatred. He knew, but did not know what he knew. He wanted to kill. Someday the no-tail would be careless, and on that day he would pay.

The other – that was the one who was afraid. It showed in his pallor, in the stiffness of his movements. He would not put up much of a fight.

They were reaching for his injured paw. In his brain a howl of denial ricocheted around the cocoon of silence in which he was held. _Fearful _was touching it. They were going to hurt it still more, they were going to lame him completely! It still served him sometimes, just a little, if he was careful. Now they were going to do something terrible to it and stop him using it at all.

But Fearful's paws were gentle. He turned the injured foreleg carefully to and fro, making the paw bend just a little and only in certain directions, as if he knew how it hurt when it was moved; as if he cared.

As though no-tails cared about anything!

He was speaking to The Other One. His voice said that he was no longer afraid, or at least not as afraid as he had been before. It had acquired an authority that The Other One seemed to recognise. A moment later he turned aside and from a nearby surface lifted a small cylinder that he brought close to his victim's face. The soft hiss as his dew-claw pressed the top surface sent a quiver of fear through the immobilised wolf, but next second a soft mist landed on his open eyes, quieting the stinging that had begun as the inability to blink left his corneas drying.

Fearful turned away. His voice suggested that he was giving orders. The other no-tails scattered obediently. Only The Other One remained, staring down at him thoughtfully.

Shreds of recognition identified the next thing to be taken from the table. He could not move, though he tried. He knew the darkness was coming back as soon as the thing was pressed to his neck.

Dorcha's howls were the last thing he heard.

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

Fortunately there was an ante-room. While the patient was being prepared for surgery, Marcellus almost dragged his employer into it and slammed the door behind him.

He could hardly believe what he'd seen. His stomach was churning with nausea and rage. Human beings, filthy and mad, held in cages so small they couldn't even stand upright; clad in stinking furs and rags of cloth, and treated with less compassion than you'd show to a rabid dog!

"Now you're going to tell me what the hell is going on here," he hissed. "If you want me to treat those poor people, I have to know what's happened to them. I have to have access to their medical files. And I mean _all_ of them!"

Harris leaned back against a cabinet on the wall and surveyed him. "You'll have their medical files by all means," he drawled. "There will be blanks. That's because we know _what _happened to them, but we don't know _how _it happened. We've learned how to counteract it, though I'll admit it's a bit of a hit and miss process so far. I'm hoping you'll have the expertise to refine it. Maybe even shorten the recovery time."

The doctor glared at him. "These people are probably beyond help, and you're worrying about the _recovery time?"_

The other man folded his arms, in the manner of one who refuses to be baited. "Allow me to know a little of what I'm talking about, Doctor. They're not beyond help by any means. What you're seeing is the result of trauma – they were stranded on a planet whose atmosphere contains some kind of compound that affects the human brain. Effectively, anyone who breathes it becomes open to suggestion. After a while, their sense of identity breaks down. They don't simply _adapt _to their surroundings, they become _part _of their surroundings. And these two were adopted by a species of carnivore native to the planet. Hence, they now truly believe they _are _carnivores.

"At this stage, they don't understand spoken English. They don't even recognize the fact that they're human. The compound in question breaks down fairly quickly when it's no longer being inhaled, but after a while the change locks psychologically for some reason we don't fully understand. What we have to do – what _you_ have to do – is to break down whatever barrier it is in their brains that stops them remembering who they are.

"Like I told you, we've had some successes. We know more or less what helps. But it's a process that could do with refining. Quicker for us, easier for them." He shrugged. "I told you the job was humanitarian."

"You–! You've done this to them _deliberately?_" Marcellus paused with held breath, sure that the denial would come, but Harris merely looked at him. "What in the name of – _why?"_

"You're not a fool, Doctor, so I won't treat you like one." The voice was cold. "It may help you to understand exactly what you're dealing with. The people who go through this are _volunteers_. They know they're going to be subjected to specialist training and that it will be dangerous; that they may not even survive. But if they do survive, they'll have mental attitudes that very few humans have – and best of all, they're natural killers."

Marcellus felt as though even his lips were stiff. "'Attitudes'?" he asked, after a moment.

"Obedience," Harris said with a chill smile. "Unthinking obedience. For the rest of their natural lives, they'll instinctively obey orders. We say kill, they kill. They don't think. They just kill. Afterwards, maybe, they think; that's their problem. They deal with it. But the job's done."

"You're turning people into assassins." He was frozen with horror and loathing.

"Ugly, isn't it?" Harris moved closer, until their faces were almost touching. "But under the nice, shiny, pretty surface of what most of humanity thinks is 'life', there's a whole lot of other things going on. And some of those things involve ugly people willing to do ugly things, just to keep everything up there nice and shiny and pretty for everyone else. Because we've got enemies, Doctor, and our enemies are willing to do ugly things, and if we take the moral high ground the only ground we'll end up left with is the ground they'll bury us in. So you'll have to forgive me not particularly caring if you think I'm a moral degenerate. I do what I have to. So will _they. _And if you refuse to help us then I'll get someone who will, and maybe they won't care as much as you do, but one way or another I'll get the job done.

"So I suggest you have a think about it. Because I haven't–"

At that moment there was a tap on the door.

"The patient's ready, sirs," said a timid voice on the other side.

"With you in a minute!" called Marcellus.

"Better go out there and get scrubbed up, Doctor. I think you'll have your work cut out, repairing that arm."

The smirk made him want to obliterate it with his fist, but he knew he'd heard a horrible truth: if he didn't help they'd find someone who would. And maybe it would be someone who didn't care all that much.

"I'm going to do my _job. _I'm going to do it to the best of my damned ability," he said through clenched teeth. In all honesty he was somewhat apprehensive about the surgery part of it, having seen the injury, but he could at least open up the arm and see what the internal damage was, and maybe make a start on what needed to be done. After that, he'd read up thoroughly and if necessary get specialist advice before he started on the real repair work, which would probably take some time. Left untreated, the injury would result in a permanently deformed wrist liable to traumatic arthritis, leaving the man in constant pain for the rest of his life. The thought of this made him add, in a fury, "And at least one of us will give an honest damn about those poor people out there!"

"Oh, I give a damn all right. After what it costs to process them, I want them to recover as much as you do. So in that respect we're on the same side."

Marcellus didn't reply. He didn't trust himself enough.

After a moment he thrust the door open. The young man beyond it was already in surgical blues, and gestured nervously to the door through which they'd entered earlier. Presumably there was an operating theater nearby.

The young woman was grinding her face against the bars. She'd stopped howling, but now she was keening piteously. As soon as she saw him looking at her, however, she backed up, snarling.

Well. He had some ideas already. Some of them would have to wait awhile – it seemed he had a whole load of reading up to do, though he resolved darkly that he'd find some way to make these poor creatures' lives less of a misery in the meantime.

With this in mind, he turned for one more time towards Harris.

"I'll do it – on one condition."

The eyebrows rose, but he said nothing, simply waited.

The doctor pointed at the cages. "If I'm in charge of this project, I want full control. I want something, I get it. Nobody, up to and including you and anyone else involved, is allowed access to them without my say-so. Nobody does anything, nobody says anything, nobody gives anything to them without my express authorization. And if I find out anybody has broken this arrangement, the deal's off."

Harris studied him for a long moment. Finally, he nodded.

"I suppose that's fair. But I'll expect you to be just as fair with me. You'll send me full and honest reports whenever I ask for them. In the meantime, I'll arrange for you to be excused your usual duties whenever you need. Your people already know you'll be required elsewhere sometimes; they won't ask questions."

Marcellus nodded too, the muscles in his stomach unclenching slightly. He squashed the urge to express gratitude; he'd asked for no more than was his due if he was supposed to be in charge of this unbelievable set-up. Now, however, he had to take the first step in putting right the terrible wrong that had been done to another human being. However many steps would follow, he wasn't quitting till he'd done what he'd been brought here to do.

And maybe, if he could contrive it, even a little bit more.

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

Once again the darkness drew back.

This time, however, the process was slower. Everything felt different. He was aware, but felt no need to react; as though nothing mattered very much, and events were only mildly interesting.

He could hear a voice. It was a no-tail voice; therefore he did not know what it was saying. Nevertheless it was a vaguely soothing sound, and he listened to it, observing the rise and fall of inflection and the subtle changes in emphasis and volume.

The sound of very low growling dawned on him, and was not important at first. Part of him thought he should be anxious about it, but anxiety was difficult to achieve; it was a huge effort, and he wasn't sure if he had the energy. Moreover, he was comfortable. Nobody seemed to be attacking him. The no-tail's voice did not bear any indication that the situation was dangerous in any way.

It was _Dorcha _who was growling…

The stab of recognition broke through his lassitude, though his body still seemed to be incredibly slow and difficult to move.

He opened his eyes. The lids seemed heavy. He had to blink several times before he achieved focus.

The no-tail – Fearful, that was it – was seated comfortably at his work-place a couple of bodylengths away. He was looking at a slim rectangular object held in his paws, and talking to it.

This was so senseless a proceeding that Alpha blinked and stared harder. It was obvious enough why the no-tails would talk to one another; he had already deduced that they shared enormous amounts of information for no obvious reason. But why would any no-tail talk to something that could not reply?

Still the soothing voice went on. Almost against his will, he began to find the sound pleasant.

Suddenly a word popped into his mind. He did not know what it meant, but he knew that this was what the no-tail was doing.

_Reading._

No-tails did not have to talk when they did this. They could do it silently, the way pack members signalled to one another. Therefore Fearful was talking _for a purpose._

Alpha growled too. The sound was weak and breathless at first, but gained in volume.

Next moment he realised that something had been done to the lower half his injured right foreleg. It was twice its normal size, and white.

When he had been put into the darkness the day Fearful arrived, he had woken again later with some kind of hard material clamped around the area that had been damaged. The pain inside his foreleg was bad, but it was not unbearable, and a rim of white not-hide between the thing and the skin revealed why there was no sense of chafing. He had tried for a while to worry it off, but given up in defeat, though it was added as yet another of the hurts for which the no-tails would pay when he got the chance.

This, however, was far larger. It was fully as long as his entire lower foreleg had been, and there was no feeling in it: none at all.

Panic fear seized him. He tried to bite it, but his teeth could get no purchase. He attacked it with his other paw, but that had no better results.

After a few minutes of tearing away at it in a frenzy, he calmed down enough to recognise that the white was not his foreleg at all, but something that had been put around it while he was inside the darkness. At the far end of it his toes were visible, and his dew-claw protruded from the near side. Apprehensively he willed them to move, and they all moved. Not far, and not without pain, but they were in his control. And the pain, though it was a bright sun somewhere in the middle of the white, was no longer the searing, all-encompassing thing that it had been originally when he made an incautious movement.

He glanced warily at the no-tail. Fearful was still 'reading', but he had the feeling that he was quite well aware of what was going on. The fact that he had chosen not to react to it was even more worrying. Reactions could be dealt with. Deliberate avoidance of reaction concealed far too much, implied that something was being withheld that might emerge later on, without warning.

All the no-tails he had encountered so far had been simple. He might not understand their ultimate aims – certainly not with regard to himself and Dorcha – but their immediate ones had been obvious enough. Most of these centred on making sure none of them were savaged, and their methods of ensuring this were crude but effective. They would pick up _the device_ and point it, and there would be a heart-stopping shock and then everything would stop working. During that time, the no-tails could do what they wanted to him without any fear of reprisal. Eventually it would wear off; sometimes after only a few minutes, others after a considerably longer period. He had learned to estimate how long it was expected to be by the fact that if they fitted what he thought of as 'the clear' over his eyes it would be some time before the tingling in his paws heralded the return of movement. The clear somehow kept his eyes damp. When they took it off afterwards, usually as he found himself able to blink again, moisture would run down his face where it had been.

He hated the helplessness. He hated the no-tails. He hated his surroundings. He longed to be back with his pack. Hatred and fear and bewilderment and anguish fought in his breast until it was a physical pain that felt almost great enough to kill him.

He hated the no-tails worst of all. They had come and taken him away from his pack, from his world. They had imprisoned him and hurt him and stripped him of his dignity. They stunned him to protect themselves and touched him without his consent. They pushed needles into him and sucked red out of him, or pushed them in and made pain spread through him.

Worse, they did the same to Dorcha. They did not heed his raving threats as he watched them doing things to her. Under Fearful's supervision, the junior members of his pack handled her carefully and gently, but through the clear on her face her green eyes were always fixed and terrified.

At least none of the males had mated her.

Yet.

There was a buzz at the door, and Fearful gave permission for those outside to enter. Alpha watched malignantly as a number of strangers came in, carrying pieces of metal at whose function he could not guess.

Under Fearful's direction, the strangers began making what was soon recognisable as another pair of cages. These, however, were more complicated. They were considerably larger, and each of them had a den. As soon as he recognised this, Alpha was conscious of a feeling of longing. One of the worst things about his imprisonment was the sense of constant exposure, of having no privacy or refuge from the no-tails' scrutiny.

But strangest of all, the cages were _tall. _He was quite used to being on all fours, for that was the way he had used to interact with the other wolves, especially the pups. He felt less different among his pack when he was closest to their height, and after a while he had hardly noticed that almost all of them were taller at the shoulder than he. Only when moving any distance had he reverted to walking upright, and even then it had come with a cost of an uneasy flicker of unwanted memory.

Even the entrance to each den was tall, high enough to admit a no-tail. Alpha could imagine no reason for this, but it did not lessen the attractiveness of the thought of having somewhere to hide. Maybe some other unfortunates had been captured and were being brought to be tortured for the no-tails' inexplicable purposes. They could hardly be described as 'lucky' in such circumstances, but their living quarters were certainly enviable.

The work went on periodically for the rest of the day. Fearful took a close interest in it, and gave what were plainly commands when something displeased him; it was once again obvious that he held a position of authority.

Alpha and Dorcha retreated to the back of their cages and watched, pressed together as close as they could get for mutual support and comfort. He found himself licking the white repeatedly, even though it tasted bad, and she whined softly in sympathy, staring at it with almost equal anxiety and puzzlement.

Food was brought for the no-tails, but nothing for them. Their water bowls were not changed, but they were not thirsty anyway, and they would drink stale water if they needed to. There was still a little left in each.

After everyone was gone, and the prison was quiet again, they rose on their hind-legs and peered at the new cages, able now to show curiosity openly. There were glass circles like watching eyes in every corner, and red lights winked beneath them at every movement, as they always did; Alpha hated those too - though he couldn't have said why - and bared his teeth at them.

* * *

><p>It was late the next day before work on the new cages started again, but at last it was finished. The others went away again, and nobody was left but Fearful. He pressed a button on the desk and spoke to it. A voice answered.<p>

Then there was a little pause. He sat at his desk looking at the object from which he had been 'reading' the day before. As he turned it to set it down, it was visible that there was now a picture on it, of a no-tail with long yellow hair.

He walked to the new cages and went into one of them. He entered the den. Then he came out, went into the other and inspected that as well. Then he came out of that too, leaving the doors of both wide open.

He went back to his desk and sat down. The direction of his glance suggested he was looking at the picture again. Next, his hand went to a pair of buttons at the front right hand side of the area where he usually worked. A clicking sound revealed that they had been activated ready for use.

Both Alpha and Dorcha tensed. Those buttons were associated with _the device_; they were only activated when the prisoners were to be taken out of their cages for the next maltreatment. Next moment he would pick up _the device_, aim it, and one or both of them would fall. Only when that had happened would the buttons themselves be pressed, and the cage door (or doors) slide upwards.

Sure enough, he reached for _the device_. But although he placed it on the desk in a position from where it could be snatched up in an instant, he did not lift or level it.

Instead, he simply pressed the buttons. In response, the doors of their respective cages slid silently upward, and stayed up.

_They were free_.

* * *

><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

Marcellus Grenham could not remember a single instant in his entire existence when he'd felt such absolute terror for his life.

_'Joelle, honey, I hope someday you forgive me if this goes wrong.'_

He couldn't flatter himself that she'd approve, but maybe she'd understand. There are some days when you just have to go with your gut.

Not that she'd ever find out the real truth of exactly what had happened to him. He was fairly sure of that much.

As he sat at his desk, watching first realization and then intention well up in the two sets of eyes directly opposite him, he knew that he'd taken a risk that could only be described as 'insane'. For sure, he had the stun-gun to hand, but heck – he was no quick-on-the-draw gunslinger. He'd never even _aimed _the cursed thing, let alone fired it; he left that to his juniors, who were trained in its use. His chances of hitting both of the – he resolutely called them _prisoners_, because that's what they were, but primal instinct screamed _killers! _– if they charged him at once were frankly laughable. He was hoping just the threat of it would ward them off if necessary, but some serious doubts about that were beginning to creep in.

The male moved first. _'Heck, I'm going to find out what his name is if I get through this,' _the crazy thought flittered through Marcellus's mind as he watched the lean form begin creeping forward. It should have looked laughable, watching a human stalking him on all fours, but it didn't. It looked horrible. _'I can't call him "Hey, you, the one with the dick" if I'm starting up a conversation.'_

He was out of the cage.

Almost involuntarily, the doctor's fingers moved towards the stun-gun. The blazing gray eyes noted that movement, and also that it was halted before touching.

He stopped.

"Hi." Marcellus hoped his voice didn't sound as quavery as it felt. He tried to infuse a bit more confidence into it. "My name's Grenham. Doctor Marcellus Grenham. I'm here to treat you."

There was no reply. He hadn't expected one.

The eyes did not change. They simply watched him.

With the hand that wasn't resting close to the stun-gun, he gestured towards the new cages that had been built to his specifications. "They'll be much more comfortable. I hope we won't have to keep you in them long, but I can't just let you go; if you get out of here they've got orders to shoot you on sight. I'm so sorry this terrible thing has been done to you. I'll do everything I can to help you recover."

He didn't flatter himself that the words in themselves were understood, but the prisoner did not attack. The eyes watched him intently, the head turning slightly like that of an intelligent dog as it tries to understand. With an effort, he broke the stare, lowering his gaze to the guy's arms. At least the right hand was resting on the floor now, so his surgery had achieved that much. The second op had been long, and more scary in parts than he'd let on, but he'd done his homework and the results had looked good. There would need to be at least one more, depending on tests, and months of physiotherapy would be required before complete use was restored, but the prognosis for a full recovery was hopeful.

More movement almost brought his eyes up again, but he realized just in time that this would be the worst move he could make. The female was moving up to join her companion, and any look at her could too easily be interpreted as an invitation to attack.

He watched with his peripheral vision. She pressed up against the male, who licked her face tenderly. Their gladness at being able to touch freely again was obvious.

They weren't going to like being caged again, and separated. But unfortunately, for a while there were no other options open. They had to be dealt with separately until they were rehabilitated enough to understand that he was here to help them. Hopefully, if his plans bore fruit, that wouldn't be too long.

This perilous experiment was expressly designed to show him where he had to start.

If he survived it.

Green eyes and gray stared at him. The prisoners were hardly three meters away from him. Their silence was terrifying.

Somehow he unlocked his tongue. "Go home." Slowly, making the movement as unthreatening as he could, he pointed to the new cages again. How could he explain that though he'd deliberately switched off the cameras before starting this, if he didn't call out within the next half an hour to say the situation was secure, the room would be flooded with gas to knock out everyone still alive inside it? Presumably by that time those outside would assume he was past assistance; if he hadn't succeeded within that time, he probably would be. Also, at a guess, the new cages would be dismantled and taken away. His replacement probably wouldn't bother with kindness. It would be drugs again, and shock therapy.

The medical logs he'd studied had made him feel physically sick. It _couldn't _be right to use these methods on human beings. No matter what the justification. There had to be a better way. Drugs, certainly, would have to be part of it, but coupled with care, kindness and above all, compassionate treatment. And he didn't give a damn how long it took, _or_ what Harris thought.

After a long, long moment, the male moved. Leaving the female on guard, he explored the room, touching nothing. Then, finally, he went warily to the new cages.

Just as Marcellus himself had done, he entered one, and then the other. His suspicious growl echoed in the first kennel before he went inside, but he came out again looking marginally less wary, and entered the second in silence.

He came back to the female. A long, cold stare bored into Marcellus's brain. Then the two of them turned away and went to the cages. Before they separated, they nuzzled affectionately. The male whined, a small, surprisingly gentle sound, and then they went in. Both of them entered their kennels.

Inside each, according to his specific instructions, they would find a bed on the floor. They would also find a pallet on which the mattress would fit, and a small table and chair. On top of the table was a plate with food on it – a polystyrene plate, not a feeding bowl. The steak was cold, but it was lightly grilled, and had the usual accompaniments of an ordinary human meal. There was also a dessert – of fruit, cored, peeled and sliced.

In addition, there was a polystyrene cup beside a water dispenser attached to the wall of the structure. If the cup, or even a finger, was pressed to the large button, water would be produced.

There was also a covered pail for body wastes, that could be safely accessed from outside when necessary. Up till now the prisoners had been obliged to use a litter tray in a corner of their cage, and their expressions had shown their disgust and mortification. It might take a little more thought to work out how to use it, but underneath that induced belief in who and what they were, he already knew that human intelligence was alive and thriving. If they cared enough – and he thought they did – they'd work it out somehow.

The male came out again. He looked at the cage door, which was still open, and he lay down quietly, watching his captor. His expression was still hostile, but it was now overlaid with faint puzzlement.

Marcellus let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Taking a conscious risk, he took his eyes off the cages and turned back to his PADD. As he picked up his place in the text he reflected that James Joyce could have had no idea when writing all those centuries ago in what extraordinary circumstances and to what a remarkable audience his work would one day be read.

He went on reading aloud for another fifteen minutes. There was no movement from either of the captives. The female did not reappear; presumably she was eating or resting.

The timer began winking on his desk, reminding him that others were waiting for his signal. Silently he pressed the 'all clear' and went on reading.

When he'd finished the chapter he put down the PADD and stood up, moving slowly. With deliberation he switched off his computer and all the peripherals. As though he wasn't at the mercy of a killer who had every reason to hate the human race, he went over to get his coat and shrugged himself into it.

When he was ready to leave he turned back again. The male was still lying motionless in his cage, watching him through the open door.

"Sorry," he said apologetically, reaching for the controls on the desk. "I hope we won't need these for long. But I'd rather just play it safe with you for a while. Just till you work out that I'm one of the good guys."

The doors closed. The prisoner made no attempt to dodge underneath. He simply watched.

"Got a little surprise for you, though," Marcellus added. "Being as you've played ball with me today. I was going to save it a while, but I guess you can both do with a treat."

He pressed another button. Slowly the wall dividing one cage from the other rose in its grooves, uniting them again.

The gray eyes followed him as he walked to the wall panel and flicked off the audio receivers one by one. The cameras were already off, and they'd stay off till he came back in the morning. "And you won't have anyone spying on you either. So enjoy."

There was a spring in his step as he walked down the corridor after entering his personal locking code into the security panel. He was under no illusions: there was still a long hard road to travel, for him and for his hapless charges. But today he'd made the first stride, and it was an enormous one.

To call what he'd established 'trust' was stretching the fact like a sheet of elastic. Perhaps 'communication' was a more accurate word. At any rate it was _something_ – something, however fragile, that had enabled both of them to explore at least the possibility of a non-hostile relationship.

Some of the things he was going to have to do in the next few days might tax that fragile understanding; might even shatter it. Much depended on how willing, even how determined, the prisoners were to comprehend what was happening to them. But the bridge had been built. If only for part of a single hour, it had existed. And if he could possibly contrive to prevent it, nothing would happen to damage it beyond repair.

He was home early for once that night. And even though it was far too cold to sit outside, he and Joelle missed the heavy traffic on 23rd Street, and sat on late at the café on the Bay, holding hands and listening to the live band performing there, who were surprisingly good.

Maybe this job hadn't been such a bad move after all.

* * *

><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

He watched the door close.

The room was quiet after the no-tail had gone. Very quiet. The faint sound of footsteps had retreated into silence, but he waited for a long time to make sure they would not come back.

His gaze travelled the prison. There were no red lights beneath the glass eyes. They had stopped blinking at every movement ever since Fearful had touched that panel beside the door.

When he was sure the no-tail would not return, he went into his den. He had already taken note of the food there, placed on a wooden structure out of his easy reach, but there was no water. He had drunk the last of his own late the previous night, and after a whole day without he was thirsty.

High in one corner there was a metal grille. Behind it a gleam of reflected light showed him where a glass eye was watching, but the red light below it stayed dark.

The food was placed right at the back of the wooden structure. He rose up on what he thought of as hind-legs, but could not quite make his paw reach. It seemed there was no alternative.

Awkwardly, he planted his hind paws flat on the floor and straightened his legs.

He hadn't been in this posture since he was captured. The floor seemed a long distance away, and he lurched, steadying himself against the wood.

There was a second, smaller wooden structure set beside the first. He knew what it was for: he had seen Fearful sitting on one while he was reading.

He did not want to do what no-tails did. But his knees were trembling, and it would do no harm, surely, to just rest them briefly while he ate.

Slowly and awkwardly he lowered his body onto the structure. His top lip shuddered away from his teeth at the feel of it, but as he settled into it he felt again that unwelcome pang of recognition. He thrust it down with savagery. It was _not-pack_, and he would not acknowledge it.

Now the food was in easy reach. He put out a wary paw and pulled it close.

The thing that it was resting on was divided into two sections. Presumably this was for some mysterious no-tail reason. He was too hungry right now to care what it might be.

There was meat … though the no-tails had done something to it, so that the surface looked different. They had also cut it into small pieces. He examined it carefully, the saliva flooding into his mouth at the smell of it, and eventually took a wary bite of the very smallest piece.

_Bloody hell. _The phrase sprang into his mind from nowhere, and he snarled even as he began wolfing down the meat, so that momentarily he choked; but he swallowed down the lump of half-chewed food and got back control of his breathing, and ate the rest with more moderation.

Beside the meat there was a small heap of what looked like hard white flowers. He sniffed them suspiciously. They did not smell of anything much, but he was very hungry. Finding that one was palatable enough, he ate all the others too. Several lumps of yielding white stuff with a glistening golden crust were found to be delicious, and went down almost whole.

When it was all gone he eyed the fruit, which lay in the smaller, separate section. It was pale yellow, cut in strange curved slices. There did not seem to be any stone, though the shape suggested that the flesh might have been cut away from around one. Its texture appeared firm, even slightly woody.

Very, very cautiously he licked one of the slices.

The phrase was much louder this time, but he was too thrilled by the taste in his mouth to protest. He almost whimpered with delight as he devoured every scrap, even licking the plate to catch up every drop of delectable juice.

This went some way towards assuaging his thirst, but he still knew that he needed more fluid.

There was another object on the wooden surface, this one smaller, with much steeper sides than the first. He was afraid that it would tip if he pawed it towards him, so he stood up again and leaned forward to peer into it.

It was empty. Angrily he pawed at it anyway. It did tip – easily. Somehow he knew there should have been water in it. It was _made _to hold water. He did not know how he knew this, and did not want to ask himself the question; all that mattered was that the foolish bowl should have had water in it, and it had not.

There was an object attached to the wall near where the disappointing bowl had been. He glared at it. It was made of the same stuff as the clear that the no-tails put across his eyes when he was stunned, and through it he could see water. More than enough water to slake his thirst, but how was he to reach it?

He used the smaller structure to climb onto the larger. He pawed at the object and tried to bite his way through the clear. He tried to prise the top off but it was firmly fixed in place. Finally, in a wild outburst of rage and frustration, he found himself hitting it with one clenched paw – an action that frightened him almost more than the prospect of not being able to reach the water did. But even this had no result, other than to hurt his paw. The infuriating object could not be broken off or broken into.

There was enough space on the surface for him to lie down as long as he curled up small, and so he did, in order to study the water container and think about the situation.

Had the no-tails done this to punish him? To torture him?

He was in no doubt that they were capable of it. But a small voice in his mind – a very, very small voice as yet – suggested that Fearful would not have done this.

He thrust the thought away from him, but it came back, and whispered persistently that Fearful was the only no-tail who had shown them any kindness; and not only kindness, but _trust. _The same kind of trust that the puppies had shown when they clambered over him, or tugged at the rags of his not-hide, or fell asleep in the curve of his body.

It was _pack_.

He licked agitatedly at the white on his right foreleg. Dorcha was a no-tail too. He tried not to remember this, but it was true. She was pack, but she was a no-tail as well.

There was another truth hidden behind this. It frightened him so much that he refused to look at it. Instead he lashed out with his paw again, striking the metal band at the bottom of the water holder.

It was sheer accident that the blow hit awkwardly, slid off and slammed into the round thing set into the base of it.

Instantly a jet of water shot down from the nozzle above this and hit the wood underneath him. The splash from it sprayed him across the belly, startling him so much that he recoiled, and very nearly fell off the _table_ altogether. Only a frantic grab saved him, and even that left him so precariously positioned that some very undignified squirming indeed was necessary to re-establish himself securely again.

The _table_ was now wet. He licked the water off it and looked more closely at the round thing for a few moments before pressing it tentatively with his fore-toes.

More water gushed onto his wrist.

He tried to lap from the stream but met with little success. In the meantime, the precious water was running over the _table_ and soaking him, and the level in the container was falling.

He sat up and looked at the thing called a _cup._

With the utmost reluctance he pushed it beneath the nozzle and made it balance on its narrow end. It was not easy to achieve, but finally he managed it. Then he pressed the nozzle again, stopping when the _cup _was close to overflowing.

Very, very carefully he pawed the _cup _away from the container. At last, he could drink, and when it was empty he could get more.

The _table_ was uncomfortable and he was afraid that if he moved without due thought he would tip the _cup _over. Gently he slid off again, landing on the _chair_. The _cup _was now in front of him.

He lowered his head and began lapping gratefully. The _cup_ still seemed a little unsecure, however, so almost without thinking his left forepaw slipped around it. The long, flexible toes embraced it naturally, and held it steady.

* * *

><p>It took several refills before his thirst was completely slaked.<p>

Feeling more at ease than he had done at any point since his captivity began, he left the den again. The room was still silent and deserted.

Dorcha had not left her den.

It felt strange to step across the space where the intervening bars had been. He watched warily for them to begin dropping as he did so: it could still be a trap. They remained motionless, however, and he put his head cautiously into the other den.

His mate was lying on her side, curled up tightly. Her forepaws were wrapped around her head, and she was shaking. Tiny whimpering noises were coming from her.

He moved to her quietly, whining softly to let her know she was not in any danger. He was here now; he would protect her. He would do everything he could to save her from the no-tails' incomprehensible malice.

A lift of his head showed him that she had not eaten or drunk. He knew now what he had to do to help her, and how it could be done.

He rose readily onto his hind paws this time. There was a _plate _on her _table_ too, as well as a _cup. _There was food on the _plate_, the same as there had been for him, though this fruit was a darker yellow; the slices were a different shape, and looked slippery. His mind reluctantly said _peach._

Carefully he filled her _cup _and slid it across the _table_ with the _plate _until it was close to the edge. All she would have to do was rise onto her hind legs and she could eat and drink just as he had done. He would show her how to hold the _cup _with one of her paws so that it couldn't spill.

She refused to stand up.

He nudged her and pawed her, making the gentlest of encouraging sounds. She needed to eat and be strong. How could she have healthy puppies if she wouldn't eat? How would she nurse them?

Was she ill?

He nuzzled her face anxiously. It was wet, and when he licked it he tasted salt, but it was not hot. Then he looked at the hurt place on her hind-leg. That too was covered in white, but this white was soft, a strip of not-hide wrapped firmly around the injured part. It would take very little work to prise it loose and pull it off, and his first instinct was to do so, but …

he hesitated. He suspected that Fearful had applied this to her. If that was the case, then maybe pulling it off would not be good. During the last few days the wound had been causing her pain; he had known it by the way she kept shifting, trying to find a way to ease it. Maybe the white was meant to help her, too.

She sat up, whining. Her body language was eloquent. She did not want food or water. She wanted comfort.

This was perplexing. He felt that they should simply curl up next to each other and sleep, but his forelegs had other ideas. They wanted him to put them around her – an action which had been simple and straightforward when he had mated her, but that was apparently not what was called for now.

She lay back down again. It seemed that she was having similar problems. She pawed his chest when he straddled her, and bit irritably at his chin. He did not know what to do, and nor did she. In an attempt to placate her, he tried licking her face again, and she bit his nose as well. He yelped. That move had _not_ been a success.

In the event, they achieved some kind of acceptable compromise. She curled up and he settled down behind her so that their bodies pressed together; cautiously he wrapped one foreleg around her. His other, injured one was nestled between them, but the white prevented it from being hurt. She was still wearing her fur, of course, and the soft hairs tickled his mouth, but that was a small price to pay for peace in the den.

They slept, and for the first time since being torn away from the pack, he had no nightmares.

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

There was an air of peace in the lab when Marcellus entered it the next morning, quite different to the charged sense of waiting that had pervaded it on every previous occasion.

They were sleeping in the female's – no, the _woman'_s cage, he corrected himself. And until he could arrange things differently, it was her _home. _She didn't stir, but over her shoulder alert gray eyes watched him, waking instantly to vigilance.

"Hi, guys," he said quietly, as he always did.

There was no reply. He didn't expect one.

He switched on the computer and all the rest of the equipment. Then he collected the litter-trays. Body wastes could provide information about the patients' physical condition, and he went through the tests methodically, as he did every morning, recording the results; he had been waiting for their hormones to stabilize before he began trials of one of the drugs that had been recommended as having reliable, if unspectacular, results.

The first results were promising. He had believed all along that stress was skewing their natural capacity to recover. He had been keeping interference to a minimum, doing as little as possible to distress them while collecting the necessary samples. Now he planned to establish a routine, carefully giving them some sense of security; keeping things as predictable as possible for them, even down to a half-hour reading before he went home for the night. Maybe even with the cage doors open, to let them get comfortable with him.

Already he was seeing real progress. The difference in the stress hormones they were secreting had dropped quite perceptibly. Everything else he checked was within acceptable parameters.

Until–

His heart sank.

He ran the test again. The result didn't change.

He looked over at the joined cage. The woman, too, had woken up now. She was staring at him fearfully. Over her shoulder, the man watched him. The gray gaze had narrowed, as if he suspected something was wrong. His uninjured arm clasped his mate's body possessively.

Marcellus sighed, and put his head into his hands. He and Joelle….

Well. No need to worry about that just yet. They'd only been trying for a couple of months. Everyone said it could take a while.

He contacted Harris. Normally he never even thought of the man if he could avoid it, but this was something that couldn't be just swept under the carpet. It wasn't like the problem was going to go away if they ignored it.

The situation needed few words.

"Deal with it." The heavy face on the vid-phone was unmoved. "This is a Government department, not a damned nursery."

He'd been expecting some such reaction, but even so the brutality of it appalled him. The decision was made just like _that?_

"They're not animals," he said at last. "They're _human beings._"

The faint, grim smile appeared. "Try telling them that."

"It doesn't matter what they think," he said hotly. "It's what _I know. _And what they'll know sooner or later."

"They'll know what we allow them to know. I assure you, Doctor Grenham, the people that this process produces aren't the bleeding-heart type. Their lives won't allow them any space for complications like family life. They'll destroy everything they touch. So for their sakes as much as for ours, just follow your orders." He glanced down briefly, clearly doing something on his computer. "By the way, I'm sending you a file that has some of the additional information you asked for, including their first names. I don't feel any more would be appropriate." When he looked up again his voice was hard. "If it makes you feel better, we have no way of knowing whether a child would inherit the parents' mental condition. If it did, it might well be permanent and incurable. Not much of a life, confined in an asylum. So think about it, Doctor."

Without further words, Harris cut the connection.

_So think about it, Doctor._

He thought about it.

He thought about it all that day, and most of the next. He thought about it when he was in bed with his wife, and had to plead a fictitious headache; luckily it wasn't one of the 'hot days'. He thought about it when Joelle got a phone call inviting her to a baby shower for one of the women at her place of work. He thought about it when he saw pregnant women in the streets, and mothers pushing prams. He thought about it when he went to the store at lunchtime and the guy in front of him had a baby in some kind of sling, wrapped cozily against the cold as it lay against his chest.

He thought about it when the early success in the lab was followed by unexpected setbacks. He was quite certain by now that both of the patients understood what he wanted, but they steadfastly refused to co-operate. When he approached them they both snarled and backed away from him. When the cage doors were left open during the reading sessions, they both stayed obdurately in their prison. He suspected that this was actually a sign of progress – they recognized that they'd started to establish some kind of a bond with him and were denying it even to themselves. Nevertheless, it could just as well be what it looked like, and although he had almost infinite patience with his research programs he was aware that the man who read his reports would be looking for more than suspicions of progress.

_So think about it, Doctor._

He thought about it when food was put onto the tables and the male patient – _Malcolm – _climbed up via the chair and ate it crouching and growling. The female – _Helen – _refused to climb, so he did the same in her hut and carried the food down to her in his mouth and fed it to her piece by piece.

He thought about it as he typed in the requisition for what he needed from the pharmaceutical department, a week after the discovery.

He thought about it when both of the patients were lying inert in their cage later that day, stunned by a low-dose shot that would only put them out for an hour or so.

He thought about it as he helped one of his orderlies sponge down Malcolm's motionless body, getting rid of the encrusted dirt on it. The wolfskin had been cut off carefully and would be replaced, on top of a set of clean Starfleet blues; it was long past time they gave him a little dignity.

He thought about it as he deftly cut short the long, broken nails and ran a clipper through the matted hair. Dark locks tumbled on to the bio-bed, surprisingly soft.

Months of beard growth had to be removed carefully. Without it, the guy looked strangely young and vulnerable. He had a narrow, clever face, with high cheekbones and the suggestion of a dimple in his chin.

Two female orderlies cleaned up Helen behind a privacy curtain. Naturally she didn't need a shave, so instead they washed her hair and brushed it. Despite it having gone unwashed for so long, it was in surprisingly good condition; but then he knew that hair, like the rest of the human body, had evolved to look after itself without the benefit of shampoos and conditioners and all the rest of the things considered mandatory by the modern hygiene regimen. To complete the transformation, they depilated her legs too.

Taking the blood samples was usually the last thing before the patients were returned to their cages.

Tonight, it wasn't.

"I'm so sorry, Helen," he said softly as the hypospray touched her skin.

She was still too thin, but she had a pretty, heart-shaped face and a kissable mouth. Naturally she wasn't a patch on Joelle in his eyes, but dressed properly and well-groomed, he could see she'd be a stunner.

He thumbed the button. The clear liquid passed into her body with a high-pressure hiss.

Maybe it was for the best, after all.

When he turned around, he realized the stun was starting to wear off. Malcolm's eyes had half-opened. Just for a second, something looked out of them that might have been human pain. Next moment, however, the familiar hatred welled up. Worse, there was accusation: _We almost trusted you._

_You don't know the half of it yet, buddy._

It had been for the best. He believed that. When at last he packed up for the day, leaving the silent lab with its two hating occupants in their now separate cages, he still believed it. He believed it when he got home and tucked into the dinner Joelle had waiting, and he believed it when they went to the cinema to see the latest blockbuster.

When they went to bed, however, he still had a headache. It was so bad it was making him cry. Joelle leaned across him, concerned and loving. Strands of her long blonde hair dropped lightly across his chest as she kissed his nose, and she said that if it wasn't better by tomorrow she was calling the doc, because everyone knew doctors made the _worst _patients. She got him a couple of pills and a drink of water, and sat on the edge of the bed dabbing his forehead with a damp cool facecloth; to help the pain go away, she said.

It was a nice idea. He loved her for having it.

But it didn't work.

It didn't work at all.

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

Something was wrong.

He knew it, with a horrible hollow certainty that drowned out the mental chaos that had resulted from the transformation that had been effected on his and Dorcha's physical appearance.

A large mirror had been placed alongside each of the cages, and despite his best efforts he couldn't help catching glimpses of his own reflection in them. He was appalled by what it showed him. While he was unable to see himself, he'd been able to continue to deny a truth he did not want to face. Now, however, at almost every turn he was confronted by that terrible reality.

Had circumstances been different, he would have retreated into his den and stayed there until forcibly dragged out of it. He licked frantically and repeatedly at the white on his wrist, the action a throwback to memories that were beginning to collapse, to lose their meaning. He tried to hold on to them, to force them to stay whole, but the more he fought the more they broke and betrayed him.

But it was Dorcha who scared him most and whom he was powerless to help; Dorcha who refused to be parted from him for a moment, even insisting on sharing his new, comfortable bed, which was really only large enough for one, so that he still slept mostly on the floor. Every movement of her body said she was afraid, even more afraid than she'd been when they were first captured. He did not know why, but her dread of he knew not what crept into him like a contagion, and the infection grew and grew until his whole world was possessed by The Fear.

He watched the no-tails, trying to glean some clue. It had to be something to do with them. Most of all he watched Fearful, who would not meet his eyes.

There had been no word uttered when the bars separating the cages had lifted again. It had simply happened, without any explanation, and then Fearful had gone away, leaving them in the half-light that was the nearest the room ever got to representing night-time.

He had not known until then how much he had depended on Fearful; how much, even against his will, he had come to trust him. Now it was dawning on him that even Fearful knew something was wrong; and if even one of the no-tails was afraid, how much more afraid should their powerless prisoners be?

So it was almost a relief, early next morning, when the blood came. A relief that The Fear finally had a presence, even if it was heralded by Dorcha suddenly uttering a hoarse howl and rolling over clutching her belly. And then there was blood, a trickle that became a stream, and there was no need to worry any more about his puppies' welfare; but there was still Dorcha, writhing on the soiled bedding, and his utter helplessness made him want to tear the world asunder. He lunged at the glass eyes, bellowing his rage and terror, and watched the red lights below them wink knowingly in response, but no-one cared and no-one came, and they were alone.

Dorcha might die, and he was the only creature in the whole world who knew.

And he could do nothing.

He hovered over her, moaning his anguish in time with every panting breath. He lay down behind her and tried to wrap his forelegs/_arms _around her, but she was in so much pain he did not know where to touch her without hurting. He licked/_kissed _her ear and her nose. He wanted her to bite him again because that would be part of _usright _which was before _uswrong, _but _usright _had been swallowed up in The Fear and that too might soon be dead.

The click of the door-lock disengaging was the most welcome sound he had ever heard in his entire life.

He was on his paws/_feet _even before the door cleared its frame, hurling his weight against the front of the cage. His toes/_fingers _clawed at the bars.

Breaking, breaking, everything was breaking: his mind, his heart, his grasp on reality. Inside his brain the walls were crumbling faster than he could shore them up, and language, _language_, he was remembering language, and along with language he was remembering everything that was _before_, everything that made _usright _into _uswrong_, everything that revealed what he'd done, what he'd become, what he was doing penned in a cage like a beast, and above all why Dorcha was bleeding to death.

A howl burst from his lungs, but it got caught somewhere in his throat in something infinitely complex. Whatever this was, it was connected to a thousand other things, and if he gave it voice then that would be the end: everything would break, _everything_, and all the certainties he'd been clinging on to would be lost, leaving him alone in a world he wanted only to reject. For just a second it throttled him, and then with an almost superhuman effort he managed to choke it free.

The sound shocked the silent room.

_"HELP HER!" _

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

_'Why the HELL wasn't anyone monitoring them?'_

The words ricocheted around Marcellus's brain as he stripped off his coat and rushed to the cages, but there wasn't time for shouting them aloud; there wasn't time for anything.

He knew of course that Helen's bleed would probably have started overnight, and that even a little blood can look like a great deal when it's spilled on the floor. But this wasn't a little. This was far, far too much.

There was an emergency release button, safely out of the prisoners' reach on the wall above the cages. A single jab opened both of the cage doors. The partition that could separate them was still in the open position, out of the way.

He didn't think of the danger; he didn't have time. He thrust Malcolm out of the way and strode to the woman on the floor.

Her skin tone was gray. Her lips were turning blue. Her pulse was slow and thready, her skin icy cold and clammy. But she was still breathing, though the inhalations were shallow and far too fast.

"Stay with me, Helen!" He picked her up. She was so light, she weighed almost nothing. She was even lighter than Joelle, who felt like a feather in his arms.

"Blood! Top shelf!" His finger jabbed towards the refrigerator. Emergency stores of suitable blood were standing by in case of emergency, stripped of their leukocytes to reduce the risks.

There was only a second's hesitation. Moments later the bag of blood was in the warming device, and another was standing ready.

The bio-scanners flashed on as he laid her on the bed. He looked at the results and was appalled.

He hurriedly disinfected his hands and then broke out a sterile IV set. In this condition, finding a vein was going to be damnably difficult. His hands were surprisingly steady, however, as he strapped a tourniquet to the patient's arm and wiped the insertion zone with alcohol.

It seemed to take hours. Even the vein he finally found was flaccid; there was hardly any flashback as he gently slid the cannula's plastic tube into the vein.

The blood wasn't at the ideal temperature yet – he'd have liked it warmer, to help combat shock, but the way her blood pressure and hemoglobin levels were dropping he had no choice. Moreover, standard practice said you started a transfusion at a slow flow rate for fifteen minutes to monitor patient reaction, but if he went with standard practice he was likely to end up with a corpse on his hands after the first ten. An acute adverse reaction wasn't going to do anything shock wouldn't – not at this stage.

As slowly as he dared, he opened up the flow valve to maximum.

As soon as it was in place, he set up the second bag on her other arm and placed two more in the heater. He knew – or rather prayed – that they'd be needed. Red was leaking off the bio-bed, and spreading in a pool on the floor. A slip hazard; automatically he cleaned it up, throwing the saturated towels into the sanitary disposal chute before packing her lower body with more to help absorb the bleeding and, hopefully, go some way towards slowing it down.

There was nothing more he could do for her surgically speaking, not alone. If they were in a hospital she'd be sent for a crash hysterectomy, but although he was pretty sure he could carry out the operation successfully there was no way he could do it single-handed, and his support team wouldn't have arrived yet. If he could only keep her going for a while longer they'd be here, and he could set to work. The operating theater was kept prepared for emergencies, all the equipment set ready and sterile. Surgery could save her. If only they had time…

He went to the comm and sent urgent orders for his anesthetist to be contacted and told there was an emergency, and that she should get her sorry ass in here the instant she arrived.

The only other thing he could do for in the meantime, however, was to warm the patient up, and her legs should be raised to minimize the amount of blood being diverted from the heart. He bundled up his discarded coat and put it beneath her calves, and went to the cupboard to fetch warm blankets.

All of this time Malcolm had stood watching, his hands clenched into fists. After that first agonized cry he'd made no more sound, and his face was uncommunicative. He simply looked at Helen's face, and after the second cannula was taped into place he'd taken the nearest lax hand in his uninjured one and held it gently. As Marcellus brought over the blankets he took off his wolfskin and vaulted lightly on to the biobed beside her, where he gathered her thin body into his arms as if he feared she would break there. He took the utmost care not to touch or jar either of the transfusion sites.

Marcellus spread the blankets over both of them, with the wolfskin on top of all, and went to prepare warming pads. Soon he'd have to contact Harris, let the man know what the situation was. There would have to be an investigation, surely; he'd reported before he left the previous night that the patients would have to be closely monitored during the hours of 'darkness', and that he was to be called immediately if there was an emergency.

A hot, helpless rage churned in his stomach. The traffic had been lighter than usual this morning, and he'd reached the lab maybe ten minutes earlier than normal. If he hadn't….

_They'd be down on half of their investment already._

He put the pads into place and checked on the cannulas, then glanced up at the scanner readings. They were confused by the fact of two bodies occupying the bed, and he grimaced. Well, whatever. There was nothing more he could do for her right now, no matter what her vital signs were. It was all down to the waiting game.

After a moment's hesitation he drew up a chair and sat down beside the bio-bed. Helen's back was turned to him. Her right arm lay on top of the coverings, the tube still safely in place. In the suspended bags, the blood levels were slowly falling.

He looked at her nails. Instead of a normal, healthy pink the beds were a bluish color. He tried to tell himself they hadn't gotten any worse, but he couldn't be sure.

The silence in the lab was profound. You'd have thought they were on a desert island, miles from the nearest outpost of civilization, rather than buried somewhere beneath Starfleet HQ on San Francisco's seaboard.

Marcellus rested his elbows on the bio-bed and his forehead on his linked hands. He believed in God, but he hadn't prayed for years, and doing so now seemed something of an imposition: _you only remember I'm here when you want a miracle._

He was certain – as certain as he could be – that he'd done everything that he could. In an ideal world, these unfortunate people would have been placed for long-term treatment by professionals, men and women experienced in the treatment of mental trauma. Unfortunately, they weren't _in _an ideal world. They'd been placed in the care of a man who was more of an experimental scientist than a clinical psychologist, and the orders had effectively been less to treat them than to break them; he understood that well enough. He'd tried to do it with kindness, and certainly now he could point to some success: the guy had shouted for help, which in psychological terms was pretty well equivalent to unconditional surrender. At a cost. Jesus, what a cost.

The injection he'd administered should have been as safe as it was effective. It was in standard use. He'd checked the dosage over and over again, run every check against her analysis results and readouts. Apart from doing what it was designed to do, it should have had no ill effects. But as a qualified doctor, he knew that there are no guarantees with a human body. For some reason, Helen had hemorrhaged. Severely. He couldn't have foreseen it; he hadn't been present to treat it when it started. Logically, he wasn't to blame.

Yeah.

Wonderful thing, logic.

Always made everything okay.

After ten minutes or so, he lifted his head.

Malcolm had laid Helen back soundlessly on the bio-bed. His forehead was now resting against hers. The lashes of the visible eye lay above his cheekbone like a dark fan, and there was a gleam of moisture underneath it. For one moment the doctor thought she was staring back at him, but then he realized she wasn't.

_No!_

As Marcellus leaped up, the other man pushed back the blankets and rolled off the bed in one smooth, controlled gesture.

His face was still; too still, like a mask from behind which he watched the world and gave away nothing. There was no trace of tears in the eyes, which were dark, so dark they were almost the color of wet slate.

They watched the CPR and expected nothing.

They were justified.

When Marcellus finally laid aside the paddles, and recorded the time of death in a voice as flat as the lines on the scanner overhead, the mask lifted to survey him.

"Perhaps it's for the best," he said quietly. His voice was English; Marcellus hadn't expected that. It was also surprisingly cultured.

"How can you say that?" demanded the doctor hotly, gesturing at the body between them. "She had her whole life in front of her!"

"She had _a _life in front of her." He lifted the wolfskin, looked at the blood smeared over it, and flung it into a corner. "You know what it would have been. The same as mine will be. She's spared that, at least."

Enraged by this fatalistic acceptance, Marcellus made to step around the bio-bed. Instantly the other man retreated. Automatically his top lip twitched up. It would probably take a while for that reflex to fade.

"You don't have to play their game!" the doctor shouted. "Just get the hell out of it. Get away and get yourself a real life, among honest people. You seem like a decent guy, you can't _want_ to work for these bastards. I won't believe it!"

A queer half-smile twisted the mask briefly. "I gave my word. And for someone with such pronounced views on what sort of people one should work for, you're in somewhat strange company yourself."

His own smile in return was bleak and humorless. "I had my reasons." A gesture. "I thought I could make a difference. And look where it's gotten me. Look where it's gotten _her._"

"Oh yes, Doctor. I know what you did. I can even make an educated guess at why you did it."

The voice was level, stating facts rather than offering absolution, but at that moment Marcellus didn't want absolution; he wanted _resolution. _"I'm responsible for her death."

"Almost as responsible for it as I am." For a split second the mask slipped, giving a glimpse of a frozen wasteland of self-loathing. "After all, I was the one who raped her in the first place. You were just trying to undo all my good work."

Now it was his turn to step back involuntarily. Seeing it, the half-smile writhed again. "I assure you, Doctor, I didn't say 'please' and 'thank you'."

"It wasn't your fault!" God above, how could they have done this to him? Laid this burden on a man who was utterly unfitted to bear it, who'd spend the rest of his life flaying himself for something he'd done when he was effectively out of his mind?

But that was all part of the plan, wasn't it? He'd kill because he hated himself and risk death because he was valueless, offering up his life on the altar of fate every time he was sent out on a job. Even more than the killing and the obedience, that was what they'd accomplished. Finally and truly, he didn't care about his own survival at all.

"It wasn't your fault," he said again, hopelessly this time. The words fell like warm rain on permafrost, just as the first had done, and were extinguished.

There was a small, cold pause before Malcolm spoke again. "Take your own advice, Doctor," he said at last. "Do whatever you must, but get out of here. You're not one of us. You never will be."

"You're telling me _you _are?" His helpless wrath blazed up again. There had to be something he could do. He'd lost one patient; was he to lose both of them? "I don't believe it. I _won't _believe it!"

"_I'm_ flattered. _You're _wrong." Malcolm stepped backwards again, and it was as though he was retreating into the shadows that would hold him from now on. "But I'll justify your belief in me in just one thing. I swear, by anything that's worth my word in this shit-hole of a life, that for the rest of mine I'll protect everyone that's entrusted to me, with my heart's blood if necessary. She's the last one who'll die when I could have saved her."

_You couldn't have saved her. Nobody could have saved her. _But the Englishman was no longer listening. He turned around and walked back into the cage, where he sat down and put his head in his hands.

"Get out of here, Doctor," were his last words.

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

Harris received the news philosophically.

"You needn't worry," he said, shrugging as he laid down the PADD containing the report. "We'll take care of the autopsy and everything. She'll be listed as killed in an accident. Nothing will go on your record."

Marcellus hated him for that. As if his damned record was the only thing he cared about!

He hadn't been in his employer's office before. Unsurprisingly, it was cramped and dark. The shadows enveloped old-fashioned filing cabinets that looked built to withstand everything bar nuclear fission, but at a guess they were all empty. That would be Harris's idea of a joke.

"I'm sure you did your best," he went on indifferently. "We expect to lose at least one out of every two we send, so pulling both of them through would've been a bonus. At least you saved our little explosives expert."

"Saved him for _what?_" Marcellus spat. "Your damned killing program?"

"If necessary, yes." Another shrug. "Oh, and by the way. This was by way of a probationary period for you. On reflection, it's been decided that your services will no longer be required in our little … project. We need someone who's a bit less … idealistic, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, I know exactly what you mean." Relief sang through him, utterly intoxicating. He felt as though the weight of the world had rolled off his shoulders. No more hiding from his peers, no more lying to his wife, no more brutalizing helpless patients. It would cost him his job, but hell, he'd find something somewhere. Something in which he could take pride, if it was only sweeping the streets.

"We'll regard the little business for your niece as a goodwill gesture," Harris continued with a negligent wave. "As for your job, you'll understand we can't really keep you here. It would make things … awkward."

"I understand that," said the doctor grimly.

"Nevertheless, Doctor, it seems you've made quite an impression upstairs. Starfleet is reluctant to lose someone with your talents altogether. There's another job waiting for you if you want it: one of our smaller outfits wants to set up a specialized research center upstate, and they'll need someone to head it."

Marcellus regarded him distrustfully; a regard which appeared to amuse his employer, insofar as he was capable of feeling amusement. "And before you ask, this is not some kind of 'pay-off'; I wouldn't give a damn if you were left to beg your bread in the streets." His boss's voice had hardened. "You're getting this offer because you've earned it and the people concerned admire your work. Luckily for you, they walk on the sunny side of the street. You'll fit in there just fine."

"How come they've heard of me?" he asked suspiciously.

Harris grinned. By some trick of the imagination, the grin seemed to take on a life of its own and float in the air, some eight inches above a stainless steel dish with three sugared almonds in it, under an angle-poise lamp on the desk. "Starfleet isn't all secrets. We know the value of shared information as much as that of controlled information."

"And suppressed information." He thought of the labs underground, and the many other closed doors that were still closed, with who knew what – or who – behind them.

"That too." A nod. "You'll still function under the confidentiality agreement that you signed, of course. As well as the one we didn't ask you to sign."

They both thought of the photograph on the PADD. Neither of them was crude enough to mention it.

"For what it's worth, I think your work will benefit a great many people," Harris added dispassionately. "Maybe one day even someone who works in my department."

"Somehow I doubt that. But I hope so." Marcellus rose to his feet. "About Malcolm…."

"You needn't worry about Malcolm. We have people taking care of him now." The reply fell with flat finality.

_Taking care of him. _Yes, it was easy to imagine how they would take care of him. Psychological assessments and subtle manipulation, grooming him for his new life; easing him away from whatever was left of his humanity.

"He's a good man," he said suddenly, not quite knowing why he did so, or even how he knew it. "You won't keep him for ever."

Harris nodded again. "Maybe not. But wherever he goes, he'll be one of us."

_For a while, perhaps. _He didn't say it, though. He just tucked it away into his heart, the way a man tucks away a spare currency note into an unused zip pocket of his wallet so it'll be there on a rainy day. For all that his experiences here had saddened and in some ways soured him, he had an almost infinite belief in the durability of a man's integrity.

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><p>Much later, he stepped out of the building into the windswept chill of an early December evening, carrying his few things in a box. His departure had been sweetened by the genuine thanks and regrets of his team, and by a look at the prospectus for his new place. The despair of his latest foray was slowly being replaced by hope, which had always come more naturally to him.<p>

Nevertheless, for the man whom he was leaving behind, down there in the floors below the basement, he felt a genuine sadness. He would have liked to have gotten to know him better.

Maybe it was for the best that he _was _leaving. It would have been horrible to have met him one day, in a corridor or somewhere, and seen that once vulnerable face locked permanently into the coldness of a professional killer.

Momentarily he slowed his pace. He was seized by the irrational urge to run back, to race shouting down the corridors, to yell out to all those ordinary, well-meaning people in there, '_You don't know what's going on under your feet'…_

But it wouldn't save Malcolm.

Only time, and maybe a miracle, could do that.

With a sigh he started walking again. And almost bumped into a couple who were also crossing the plaza, so deep in conversation they nearly didn't see him till it was too late.

The guy was tall and rangy, with fairish brown hair under which a good-looking face was alive with passion. He seemed to be arguing a point with his companion, who was petite, Asian, and extremely pretty. She, by contrast, was composed, though her eyes brimmed with amusement.

"Jon, you know it wouldn't work out. Be honest. You're wedded to that test program of yours."

"But teaching in _Brazil?_" His voice rose in incredulous indignation. "You could damn well take your pick where you wanted to teach! Harvard…"

He watched them go. They'd hardly even been aware of his existence, which struck him as extremely funny, considering they'd almost mown him down.

Driven, dedicated people in a driven, dedicated organization. He mustn't forget that those characteristics most aptly described what Starfleet was, and for the most part in a good way, dedicated to the advancement of humanity's knowledge. And he was going to go on working for Starfleet. Even a man who had no use for him acknowledged that he could contribute to the ongoing quest, and that in itself was a fine thing.

He walked across the plaza.

It was time to go home.

**The End.**

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><p><strong>All reviews received with gratitude!<strong>


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